


Slow Burn

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A Love Story Told in Bodily Fluids, Alcohol, Extended Metaphors, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Tenderness, Whiskey & Scotch, Whiskey Bottom Will, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: Will Graham compares his love life to whisky and whiskey.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52
Collections: Whiskey Bottom Will





	Slow Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FannibalFest #WhiskeyBottomWill challenge.

As his back hit the soft sheets, Will Graham thought of whiskey.

The tentative fumblings of his youth were rotgut, quick harsh burns that blazed and dropped like signal flares fired over the bayou. Functional but not fulfilling.

His palate developed with age, when he started realizing he preferred smooth and surprising with just a kick of sass in the aftertaste over cheap things that left him hungover with a roiling gut of shame. But therein lay the problem, such things being available in theory but often at a cost and hard to find - and Will had learned he could not settle for less.

So years passed in solitude saw Will cultivate a bottled collection of personal torments and delights, memories and oblivion stored in glass like an alchemist's components - able to transmute misery and loneliness and horror into something useful. Useless things were only fit for burning and what better cautery than whisky and whiskey? 

There were corner store liquors for the worst of it, days he couldn't be bothered to take care with **how** he smothered his gift, so long as it dragged him down for a few hours before the nightmares set in. The smoother single malts for bad days when he couldn't stand having to analyze _one more thing_ beyond the banked blaze of solace, sipped as he walked and wandered with the dogs, focusing on his breathing and the heated plumes of his exhalation before he turned back, wrapping the peace of the sight of his house - a single beacon of light in the gloom, a boat on the sea - around him like a blanket while the drink warmed him from within. 

For very good days there were a few bottles of Good Stuff, always capitalized in his mind. Careful blends purchased when he was flush, the sort with teasing whispers of vanilla and woodsmoke, honey and time, that made his jaw tighten and eyes slide closed not merely in relief but reverence. Days or nights where he felt the Good Stuff was earned were times for takeout or the infrequent treat of indulging his culinary side, of pride exercised in the kitchen, creating not subsistence but true sustenance. Layers peeled away with exquisite care he rarely showed himself, steaming in a bath like the embrace of a stream with the glass held comfortably on the rim. Time not usually granted himself as his mind wandered and his hands explored and his pleasure was drawn out, timed to the final drops of golden heaven floating through his blood on a scented cloud of endorphin rush.

Dinner with Hannibal tonight had felt new. Their latest safehouse, the longest stint so far and no sign of trouble yet (knock wood.) It had taken years to get here - the spilling of various bodily fluids, the suffering of others for their sake, the dark stains and pale scars that told their story across the pages of their skin, blood glittering black in the moonlight washed away by pulsing seawater, baptized as they emerged on a shoreline in each other's arms - reincarnated but with the memories of these past lives to learn from.

The last finger of 30 year Dalmore had barely gone when he stepped into the other man's space, the hold that enfolded him tentative yet familiar - a mirror of that fateful blood-steeped night in Hannibal's kitchen.

The first kiss was a tease, close-lipped and cautious - the dip of a finger in the glass before it touched the lips, that flash of tongue to gather the taste lingering there.

The sudden crushing mutual embrace sent them spinning, everything forgotten, instantly marked as irrelevant when weighed against the need for skin, touch, taste, heat and light and sound. Clothes dropped, ignored in the darkness of the cool bedroom that caught Will shivering with anticipation, a faint sheen of perspiration along his clavicles instantly sampled by the most sensitive palate on the planet. His own teeth were set with careful impatience to the join of Hannibal's neck and shoulder before their mouths met, sharing the flavor of themselves to intermingle, blurring them further. Satiation for men hungry before they were born, only their souls knowing they must find and feast on one another to ever be happily complete.

Skin sliding on skin, every inch only capable of being properly mapped by exploratory tongues and the nerve endings in their fingertips. A quick burn riding the scalpel edge of pleasure-pain as Hannibal sank inside him with aching tenderness. The strange new blend of hormone-chemical-emotion making the pulse rise, filling the senses with sensation like every new swallow of a particularly fine Scotch.

It would be the first of many times though the last of another, never able to go back from this even if either had been willing. The mutual imploding blast wrapped him in peace like a blanket even as warmth flooded him from within. It was beautiful.

As strong arms gathered him close, a sweet tangle of legs and tongues, the final note a brush of lips against his glistening brow as sleep claimed him, Will knew falling in love with Hannibal was definitely the good stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> Given the wealth of talent in this fandom, I'm honored to be a part of this collection. Hope my submission was enjoyable.
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my soul.


End file.
